


Conversations About Q

by stereokem



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Conservations about Q, Humor, Implied Torture, In Character, James is a snarky bastard, M/M, Sexual Tension, forming a relationship, mention of Vesper Lynd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-06
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 14:23:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something old, something new,<br/>Something Bond, something Q.</p><p>M’s conversations with Bond were less noteworthy for their brevity than for their weight. Particularly   where a certain Quartermaster was concerned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conversations About Q

**Author's Note:**

> Note: AU where M survives Skyfall. Also, according to a general consensus of fans and critics, Bond is probably about 35-40 yrs old. I’m going to put Q at being in his late 20s or early 30s.
> 
> Also, I am thinking of doing a reading for this, so be on the lookout for a podfic.

 

1

 

            The day that Bond first met the new quartermaster, the former surprised her in a way he hadn’t done in years.

            He strode in the door of her office at exactly 15:00 sharp.

            “007. Do my eyes deceive me, or are you, for once, punctual?”

            As resident M, she wasn’t exactly accustomed to people just barging through the doors of her office with the irritated sounds of the secretary following said intruder. However, given that it was Bond, she couldn’t say that she was quite surprised.

            The agent before her ignored her quip, coming straight at her with one of his own. “You’ve got to be kidding me, M. Your new Quartermaster? Where did you pluck him from—a playground?”

            She raised a silvery eyebrow. “Problem, 007?”

            He gave her a hard look. “I’m not a babysitter, M.”

            “No, but you certainly seem to need one, and your track record with _adults_ is far from stellar.” She raised her hand as he opened his mouth to protest, calling for silence. “You are stuck in the sandbox together, for better or worse. _Play nicely.”_

 

2

            She had given him no options but, truth be told, she had been slightly concerned about their working relationship—their compatibility, as it were. Bond was older, possibly wiser ( _possibly_ ), and not at all interested in taking orders from a young, waifish looking computer genius whom the double-oh agent claimed still had “spots”.

            At least, that was how it seemed initially. Five weeks into their new partnership and one rather grizzly mission later, things seemed to have changed.

            Slightly.

            “We’re finished, 007. You may go.” M averted her attention from the bloodied and bruised agent sitting across the desk from her, turning her focus back to her paperwork . . . only to revert it back a minute later when she realized he hadn’t yet moved.

            The double-oh agent sat placidly, almost languidly, in the stiff office chair. Despite his rumpled and singed suit, in addition to the gashes that were still steadily oozing blood, he gave off an air of amusement. His overall demeanor was summed up in the small space of his mouth, which was fixed into a wry, charmingly lopsided grin.

            Not in the mood for the game that twinkled in the agent’s eye, M gave him the most severely annoyed look she could muster, almost spitting: “What?”

            Bond, completely unperturbed by her tone, shifted slightly in the chair, getting more comfortable it seemed. “Our new Quartermaster,” he responded unhurriedly, grin lingering around every word. “Where did you say you snatched him up from?”

            M held back a scoff. “Oh. Find him interesting now, do you?”

            “Maybe.”

            “I’ll be sure to tell him, then. Much like the rest of us, he lives for your approval.”

            Though when Bond got up and left he took his slight-grin with him, his low chuckle continued to ring annoyingly in her ears even after he had exited and shut the door behind him.

 

3

 

            It wasn’t often that M ventured into Q branch, but it did tend to happen every once in a while, particularly since the resident Quartermaster was also in charge of system security and an increasing assortment of other delicate intelligence. She expected to find Q alone at his console, typing away madly, as the receptionist of Q branch informed her he usually was. She did not expect to find Q standing at a worktable in the middle of the lab, trying to fine-tune a piece of equipment whilst making a valiant effort not to acknowledge the double-0 agent staring very blatantly (and very coyly) at him from across the table.

            M watched them for a moment from the doorway, sharp eyes catching the way Bond leaned against the table, his lips moving leisurely, edges of his mouth twitching. Q’s own mouth when he spoke was taught and terse, his replies brief and pointed, as if Bond were annoying him.

            Now, strictly speaking, there was nothing actually _wrong_ with this scene. An agent was entitled to speak with his quartermaster whenever needed, certainly, and Q had an open-door policy. On the surface, they were just two men, one older and one younger, probably discussing whatever piece of equipment Q was apparently debugging. More or less innocuous.

            But with Bond, nothing was innocuous. Especially given consideration to the way Bond was leaning, the way his sharp, blue-grey eyes were roving over the younger man with a look of curiosity mixed in with lascivious intent. It was all body language M had seen before, just hardly ever in the workplace.

            And certainly not directed at another man.  

Apparently, Bond said something particularly cheeky, because Q finally diverted his attention long enough to look up and raise one of his brows incredulously at the older man. Across the table, Bond just smiled and gave his best charming wink.

            By which time M had had enough.

            “007!”

            Bond pushed himself away from the table with the ease of a jungle cat getting up from a nap. It didn’t escape her notice that it took a bit longer than usual for his focus to slide from the quartermaster (who was deliberately ignoring Bond) to M. From where she stood in the hallway just outside the lab, she beckoned him with one authoritative finger.

            When he was close enough to be at least moderately out of earshot of the quartermaster, she fixed 007 with a steely glare as asked pointedly. “What, exactly, are you doing?”

            Bond smiled easily. _“Playing nicely.”_

            She didn’t grace him with a reply, merely cocked a silvery eyebrow at him.

            Bond gave her a small grin, not quite impertinent, but bordering on. “Am I not allowed to chit-chat with my quartermaster?”

            “Just keep it professional, 007.”

            As she brushed past him and entered the laboratory from which Bond had exited, she heard him called after her, “Don’t I always, M?”

             

4

 

            She should have noticed how serious it was whenever equipment started coming back in one piece.

            To be impartial, Bond usually managed to maintain at least one item in working order: his gun, his lifeline. Everything else, however, was fair game for him to wreck havoc upon. Gadgets were lost and broken, suits were destroyed beyond repair, and cars came back as scrap metal. Generally.

            However, in just weeks after the new quartermaster has very biliously asked 007 through gritted teeth to “ _Please_ try not to _completely_ obliterate _everything_ this department gives you,” there was a drastic change in the status of returned equipment. For example, the first mission after this request, all gadgets were actually returned—not in one piece, per say, and not without damage; but it was remarkable in that M couldn’t recall the last mission after which _every single item_ was accounted for.

            007, for his part, looked rather pleased with himself. He managed to earn a nod of definite approval from M and an amused smirk from Moneypenny. Q, however, who perhaps hadn’t been at MI6 long enough to appreciate what a monumental achievement this was, simply cocked an eyebrow. He didn’t even look at the expectant double-0 agent before turning heel and basking self-absorbedly in the glow of the main console’s giant monitor.

            Seeing that the show was over, M too turned heel and made her way out. She wasn’t sure if Bond’s simultaneous exit was by design or chance.

            “He doesn’t impress easily, does he?”

            And yes, she must have been supremely busy that way to not catch the fact that 007, James Bloody Bond, was interested in impressing anyone. Her reply was somewhat absent, mind consumed with more pressing matters.

            “I suppose not. . . .”

            Perhaps Bond surmised her preoccupation, because the next time she turned a corner, she found herself walking alone.

 

5

 

            The day that Bond returned all his equipment in one piece and in pristine order was, no doubt, a day to be hailed at Q branch. M, for her part, might have never found out, if it weren’t for the fact that she attempted to com Q at the exact moment Bond’s kit was being accounted for.

            She pressed the button of the intercom, mouth open to promptly ask Q for an update on Korea, where they had an agent dispatching intel via a heavily encrypted program that Q was handling and decoding. However, her speech was precluded by the immediate sound of voices in conversation.

_“Well, this is . . . moderately surprising.”_

_“Only moderately?”_ And that would be Bond. _“Are you aware of my track record with such things?”_

           There was a small noise that could have been a chuckle. _“Yes. All too well.”_

_“But my returning every single piece of your precious equipment in mint condition is only moderately surprising to you?”_

_"What would you have me say?”_

_"Telling me how wonderful I am generally works.”_

            Met by the dry reply: _“I’ll catalog that information for future reference.”_

           There was a slight pause during which M once more gathered breath to speak, before she was cut off by:—

_“You are a hard man to please.”_

            She had never seen Q wear any expression other than peevish impatience or quiet calculation, but she could definitely hear the smirk in his voice when he replied _: “You have **no** idea.”_

            Smirk. _“I’d like to find out.”_

            _“Why? So I can stroke your ego?”  
_

 _“_ _Among other things.”_

            “Q.” Her voice crackled over the com.

            _“M.”_ Q’s voice sounded closer now.

            “I need an update on that last report. What is its status?”

            _“My technicians are handling it now; I am about to go over their work. We should have it to you within the quarter-hour.”_

            “Excellent. Bond.”

            There was a shuffling as Bond came over, limping it sounded like.

_“Here.”_

           “You were supposed to report to medical twenty minutes ago.”

            _"My ap_ _ologies. Q here was just filling me in on the finer details of handling his equipment—“_

           “Save it for Moneypenny, 007. Report to medical _now_.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            She heard quick footsteps, indicating that Bond was following her orders. She was about to close of the com when Q’s voice piped up again, sounding a bit farther away and no longer right next to the com. Though it was muffled, she could still make out his words:

            _“Aren’t you for getting something?”_

 _“Am I, Q?”_  
            There was an impatient sigh. _“The jacket. I can’t exactly let you send water and fire-treated fabric through a dry-cleaner. Take it off.”_

            A ruffling of clothing. Then.

            _“The tie as well, 007.”_

            The slithering sound of a tie being undone.

            _“Anything else you would like to see me strip off—?”_

            Click. She commed out.

 

 

6

            The real clues started rolling in about eight months into Q’s residence at MI6.

            There was a double-0 mission Bond had been assigned. It had all of his usual requirements: danger, handling an excessive amount of foreign currency, national security, a beautiful woman that needed to be wooed (all for queen and country of course). There was just one catch. One variable that was outside Bond’s area of expertise.

            Which was where Q came in.

            A point that Bond was disputing adamantly.

            “You cannot send him with me, M!”

            It was a rare sight indeed to see James Bond seriously arguing with her. She could count on one hand the number of times had directly opposed her orders or verbally disagreed with her. Feeling a prickle of annoyance at this, M narrowed her eyes at the agent standing across from her and said in a steely voice:—

            “I can do as I see fit, 007. Q is the only one with enough savvy and experience to disengage their mainframe. That he has to do it from the source cannot be helped.”

            “He may have the technological ability, but he certainly doesn’t have the required field experience,” James all but snarled. “If he goes out there, he may come back in pieces. He is _not_ a field agent, M. You—”

            “He is _exactly_ whatever kind of agent I need him to be!” M objected, standing up from her chair. “This is not your call. Q understands the dangers involved, and he has agreed to it.”

            Bond was opening his mouth to argue when the door opened. Speak of the devil.

            “M is perfectly correct, 007,” greeted the smooth voice of Q. The young, slight man closed the door behind him and straightened his glasses. “I may not have your degree of expertise in fieldwork, but I know enough to perhaps not get killed.” A wry expression that wasn’t quite a grin and wasn’t quite a grimace settled onto his wan face.

            Bond, seeing that he was going to be overruled, sullenly sank into the chair on the other side of M’s desk. “That’s a bit optimistic,” he muttered.

            Q, following 007’s movements and sinking far more gracefully into the chair next to him, simply replied, “Just treat me as if I were one of those pretty things you want to sleep with when all is said and done. They tend to have a bizarrely impressive survival rate.”

            _“Q,”_ M rebuked sharply.

            The younger man bowed his head slightly. “My apologies, ma’am.”

            She merely nodded her head once in acknowledgement of his apology, and then proceeded to finish briefing the pair of them. Q sat placidly and pensively in his chair with the unperturbed air of a man that knew he might be soon facing death. He fidgeted just a bit, perhaps out of underlying nervousness or just out of habit. She wasn’t sure.

            Bond, on the other hand, was quite still. All the while she was speaking his eyes flitted from being trained on her, to settling on Q, who (deliberately, it seemed) did not returned the glances. As she finished, both men stood up; Q was the first to turn and walk out the door, but Bond lingered a moment.

            He didn’t say anything. His steely gun-metal blue gaze said it all.

            With a final nod, he exited, following Q’s retreating footsteps down the hall.

 

7

            The mission was a disaster done up in the classic 007 style: successful by a very slight margin, with numerous casualties, property damage, and personal injury.

            None of Q branch’s equipment came back, save for the gun. Bond sustained a glancing bullet wound to the leg and a concussion. Q was much worse for wear.

            Cracked ribs. Second-degree burns on his arms. Multiple lesions around his face. And three broken fingers as a result of what had been called an “interrogation”. (Thankfully, none of these were thumbs.)

            Bond was furious. M had never seen him that angry at anyone, much less himself. When they pulled up in a beaten-up (and stolen) BMW to MI6 headquarters, he had practically carried Q from the car all the way to medical (with Q making some weak protests along the way). He shouted at the attending physicians and had to be removed from the ward by MI6 security. It took him a solid hour to calm himself back down.

            She expected that Bond would appear at her office and rage at her for a good spell, possibly blame her for the damage done. But he didn’t. Instead, as soon as he was deemed calm* enough to be released, he went straight back to medical and (very politely, someone noted) enquired after Q. After getting some affirmation that the quartermaster was being taken care of and was going to be just fine, Bond left.

            The mission saw the younger man out of commission for ten days. It should have been longer, but the quartermaster wouldn’t hear of it. They came back from the mission on a Friday, and Q was back the second Monday after their return.

            007 himself had been in and out of the office since their return, his presence flickering and inconstant. However, on the day that Q reported back to work, Bond was right there at M’s side, ready to greet Q as he (with as much dignity as he could muster with his left hand in a cast) marched back into work.

            As Q approached, M permitted herself to see the tired, almost boyish man that approached rather than just the agent. Q, despite having been away for ten days for rest, looked tired. The purple circles that had taken up permanent residence under his eyes appeared to have taken on a deeper hue; his hair was askance, and he looked paler than usual. His clothes had an extra rumpled look to them, and he was missing a tie. Difficult to put on with one hand, she imagined.

            Q stood in front of them, quiet and curious. His gaze flicked from M, to 007, to Moneypenny, who was hovering behind M’s shoulder. It was only when his gaze landed on her that a flicker of a smile ghosted his white mouth.

            “Ma’am,” his eyes fell back onto M as he addressed her.

            “Quartermaster,” she greeted, using his formal title. “Glad to have you back.”

            “Likewise.” His eyes went back to the woman standing behind M, and he nodded at her. “Eve.”

            “I realize that you have a staff at your disposal, but if you need assistance otherwise, Moneypenny is at your service,” M told him. “I imagine it might be difficult for a while with your injuries.”

            If Q grimaced slightly at the word “injuries”, no one made comment. “Yes, well, thank you.”

            “You’ll find that I can be quite useful,” Eve piped up brightly, her signature knowing smile playing around her mouth.

            Here, Q actually did smile. “I know. Thank you.”

            At long last, Q’s eyes then drifted where they had previously been avoiding. Beside her, M felt Bond stiffen at the attention.

            The two men regarded each other for a long moment, both of their expressions completely impassive. There was so much tension in the air that it made the hairs on her arms prickle.

            Then, finally—and to everyone’s silent surprise—it was Bond who broke the gaze first, eyes flickering downward almost as if . . . well, as if ashamed.

            “Q.” Blue-grey eyes came back up.

            The younger man nodded once, slowly. “007.”

            And then, without another word, the quartermaster brushed past them and entered the laboratory, the door swishing closed behind him.

            Whilst Moneypenny and the rest of the technicians and staff that had gathered briefly to see Q back to headquarters dispersed, M remained where she was by Bond’s side. The double-0 agent was stiff as a marble statue.

            Once she was sure everyone was out of earshot, she hissed one thing at him out of the corner of her mouth before departing also.

            “For godsake, Bond, _breathe_.”           

 

 

8

 

            A month passed. The cast came off and Q made a remarkably fast recovery (the doctor had never seen someone at MI6 who’d taken so quickly and readily to a physical therapy regime, although to be fair, most of the patients were field agents). Even though Moneypenny’s services were no longer strictly needed there, she did not stop paying visits to Q branch on a regular basis, and M saw no problem in letting her.

            Bond, on the other hand, seemed to be steering quite clear of the place unless it was completely unavoidable. Whereas before he could often be found loitering around the laboratory— flirting with assistants, tinkering with new toys, chatting up Q (at least _trying_ ), and being a general nuisance— now he spent most of his time in physical training. Which, on the whole, wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; according to reports she’d been getting from the medics and trainers, Bond was exceeding expectations; he was running around like a twenty-old instead of a man pushing forty.

            No. What really had M’s alarms going off were the few times she found him at his seldom-occupied desk, doing paperwork. Which he later handed in.

            _On time_.

            . . . .

            Bond’s paperwork was _never_ on time.

            Bond was _never_ at his desk.

            And when was the last time he actually completed his paperwork before handing it in?

            It was all extremely puzzling, mildly worrying, and a tad vexing. Of all agents, Bond was particularly adept at keeping himself cool and aloof from personal entanglement. It was true that he seemed to enamor nearly every woman he came in contact with on a mission, but it did not cloud his judgment or affect his performance. It had been several years since Vesper Lynd, and Bond had seemingly learned from his mistake. Every one of his . . . encounters was short-lived and without commitment. Outside of the bedroom, all of his relationships were completely impersonal—though he definitely had a soft-spot for Moneypenny, who could keep up with his innuendo-laden banter and wasn’t at all intimidated or impressed by his confidence and womanizing ways. Actually, out of all the agents, technicians, and staff at MI6, Eve Moneypenny was the only person M could actually consider Bond to be chummy with; apparently, shooting and nearly killing someone is a very bonding experience. She would not have been at all surprised if the same sort of familiarity arose between Bond and Q after this last mission. 

            But no such comraderie was forthcoming. They barely saw each other, let alone spoke.

            And it wasn’t really a problem until Bond failed to report to Q branch for new weapons training prior to an upcoming assignment. That was when M had to step in.

            She called him to her office and he arrive, once more, on time.

            When he first entered, she ignored him while she looked down at the trade agreement documents on her desk, letting him stand there in surly silence. Spotting an error in one of the conditions, she marked it with her pen, and intoned stonily: —

           “I am told you are being uncooperative. This is not acceptable.”

           Bond breathed in deeply, exhaling through his nose. “Yes, ma’am.”

           “I do not pretend to know what is going on with you; frankly, I have more important things to worry about. The last thing we need right now is a lack of reciprocity between departments. You have a big job coming up, so whatever is traversing between you and the quartermaster needs to be resolved now.” She looked over her half-rimmed glasses at him briefly. “Talk to Q. Sort this out.”

           “What should I say to him, then? ‘Sorry I let you be tortured when it was my job to protect you. No hard feelings’—“

           “Your job was to see that the mission was a success,” M countered swiftly. “Q was acutely aware of the dangers he faced in accepting that assignment; he also realized how important it was that the information he obtained get back to MI6 immediately, which was why he gave you that flash-drive and told you to run with it.”

           “And nearly got himself killed in the process.”

          “If we didn’t have that intel, he _would_ have gotten killed. The information on that drive made his extraction possible. You did your job, and he did his.”

          “Just keep him in my ear and not at my side,” Bond returned irritably. “I don’t want to be responsible for him.”

         “You mean in the way he is responsible for _you?”_

         There was no reply. Which was both shocking and slightly satisfying.

         “This is dangerous work, 007. Everyone in this building is perfectly aware of this, whether they do fieldwork or make coffee runs. Q is no exception. He does not hold you accountable, and neither should you. Now get out of my sight.”

         As Bond was turning to leave, there was a knock at the door; Bond paused, and then opened it, revealing Moneypenny, two cups of steaming tea in either hand.

        “M,” she greeted, setting one cup in the upper corner of M’s desk. She turned to acknowledge Bond. “James. How lovely to see you.”

        “Likewise, Ms. Moneypenny,” and there was that old swagger back, that trademark charm that he was so well known for.

        M brought her cup closer to her, nodding at the other one still in Moneypenny’s hand. “Is that for Q, Ms. Moneypenny?”

        Eve smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

        Bringing her cup to her lips, M tilted her head at 007. “Give it to Bond. He was just about to head to Q branch for weapons training.” She slit her eyes at him pointedly.

        Getting the hint, Bond graciously accepting the cup from Eve. As both the agents filed out the door, M heard Bond casually inquire, “Shall I send your love to Q, then, Ms. Moneypenny?”

        And before the door closed behind them, M distinctly heard her secretary and personal assistant chuckle devilishly and say, “Oh yes, and give him a _kiss_ for me.”

 

9

 

          It was one of those rare missions that went off without a hitch. Bond noted multiple times in his report how utterly boring it had been. He was gone for a week, with several days devoted to surveillance and only a few to actual legwork. He identified the carriers, intercepted the package, and made it back to MI6 with only a few scratches. Remarkable.

          Even more remarkable was the drastic change in Bond’s behavior towards Q when he returned from the mission. Perhaps it was a result of the long days Bond had spent holed up in an abandoned building with nothing but rats and Q’s voice in his ear for company whilst he cased the illegal operations site. Or perhaps it had something to do with Q electing to accompany Bond to medical and clean the agent’s wounds whilst the doctor on call set about getting a stitching kit. Or that he chose to remain sitting in medical and exchange some not-altogether strictly business conversation whilst the wounds were stitched up. Perhaps it was because Q, for the first time ever, actually laughed at one of Bond’s saucy dictums without being disdainful.

          Whatever the case, the next time she went to Q branch, she found Q as usual at his worktable—with none other than Bond, peering over the younger man’s shoulder at the item on the monitor Q was gesturing at.

         And Bond was standing close.

          Perhaps too close.

         “This is what the current model looks like,” Q was explaining, “though I thought that it might be too . . . bland for your tastes.”

          Bond smirked. He placed a hand on the table on one side of Q, as if to steady himself. “Oh? And what do you know about my tastes, Q?”

         Q huffed. “Little, save for that you like expensive hooch and cheap women – with the exception of Eve.”

         “Ah, yes. Ms. Moneypenny is quite a catch; however, she prefers fish-filet to beouf bourginon.”

         “So she’s told you. That must be quite a disappointment.”

         Bond’s other hand found the table edge on the other side of Q, and M saw the computer genius visibly stiffen as Bond leaned in and murmured close to his ear: “It might be, if I weren't so utterly distracted by someone else. . . .”

           “Q.”

            It was a good thing that Bond’s reflexes were so sharp, M though, otherwise Q’s knee-jerk reaction to jump back would have knocked the agent over. The double-0 agent calmly put another step between him and the quartermaster as the latter pursed his lips and tried not to look flustered.

            “Yes,” he answered, his voice a bit tight.

            She held up her earpiece for him to see, then set it on the nearest work table. “I’ll need you to have a look at this. It keeps picking up radio waves and interference.”

            Q’s dark brow furrowed and he nodded. “Right away, M.” He cast around and nodded at an assistant, who immediately took the earpiece to a worktable and began examining it. Rectifying his glasses on his nose, the quartermaster turned back to his computer.

            “Bond.”

            The agent looked at her with a face full of false innocence. “Yes?”

            “Follow me. I need to speak with you.”

            With a nod and a wink to Q, Bond acquiesced and followed her out of the lab and down the hallway. As soon as they turned a corner, M spoke up:—

           “Was that professionalism in there, Bond?”

           He didn’t even hesitate. “Of course.”

            “Then I shouldn’t have to tell you what is and is not acceptable.”

            It was sort of irritating, how completely unperturbed he sounded. “No.”

           “Good. Now, don’t you have paperwork to do?”

            “It’s finished and sitting on my desk.”

            “Well, it should be sitting on _my_ desk. Get on it. ”

     

10

            It was dumb. Quiet stupid really. Honestly, what were they thinking, putting Mallory’s office on the opposite side of the building to hers? This was the man who was supposed to take her place as M, at some point along the line. Why would they put his office all the way across the damn building? It made meeting with him such a bloody chore. She should have asked Mallory to come to her office; yet alas, here she was, trekking steadily down the corridors of MI6’s east wing, listening to her footsteps reverberate off the walls.

           It was only when she realized that she was hearing more than just her own footsteps that she slowly came to a halt and paused to listen to that soft, underlying sound pervading the air.

           Voices. Two men, it sounded like, speaking in low. Not quite whispering, but definitely speaking in confidence.

           Though M wasn’t customarily one for eaves dropping, she couldn’t help but pause for that moment to listen.

           “. . . You always look at me as if you don’t believe me. I give you my word that this is a serious offer,” one of them said. The voice sounded very familiar, though it was distorted somewhat by the reverb.

           “Oh, I believe that your offer is _genuine_ ,” the other voice returned, again, also strikingly familiar. “I simply don’t think the phrase ‘take you out to dinner’ has the same connotations for you as it does for me.”

             “Are you implying something, Q?”

             M’s mouth dropped open slightly. Q and Bond. What on earth—?

             “Nothing that is unwarranted, 007,” Q replied smoothly. “I am merely making an observation about your track record.”

            “If I promise to be a perfect gentlemen—”

            “No. We have a working relationship. Don’t compromise it simply because you have an itch.”

            “It’s not exactly that _simple_ —”

            Before M herself realized what she was doing, she had started up once again on her path towards Mallory’s office, unconsciously making her steps a bit louder than necessary. The sound of approaching heels quickly hushed the voices.

            When she rounded the next corner, the sight that greeted her confirmed her suspicions: there were Bond and Q, watching her warily as she made herself known. Q was leaning against a wall, laptop clutched protectively over his chest, as if to serve as a shield between him and Bond, who was standing perhaps a bit too close.

            “Gentlemen,” she greeted, walking up to them and slowing her pace a little.

            If they noticed how much they sounded like schoolchildren trying not to get caught by the way they nodded and responded, “Ma’am” in unison, neither attempted to rectify it. They simply watched her walk past, frozen in their places like deer. As if by keeping still she wouldn’t see them.

             As soon as she rounded the next corner, their voices sprang up again.

            “And you see, _that_ is exactly why—”

 

11

 

            It was early. Very early. Unhumanly early.

            Perfect time for trouble.

            3:45 in the morning is the approximate time she got the call from MI6 stating that their main security system was being hacked into. The hacker could not be traced, and they had already broken down the first firewall. Q had installed seven in total. Thank god for small favors. 

            No sooner did she get off the phone with MI6 than she was calling Q on his personal mobile. She listened to the dial, then the ring, a mixture of anxiety and confidence welling in her, because Q would pick up, he always picked up, the man seemed to never sleep, he always answered on the first ring and this was the second—

            “Hello?”

            She allowed herself all of three seconds to be shocked before returning: “Bond. Where is Q?”

            “’Moment.” There was shuffling in the background that sounded suspiciously like fabric before a different groggy voice came to the speaker. “Q here.”

            “There’s been a security breach at MI6. We need you there now.”

            “On my way.”

 

            Q actually got there before M did.

            Her home was approximately twenty minutes away from headquarters, whilst Q’s was a good half-hour. She should have gotten there first. However, it made all the difference if you had Bond driving.

            Or, likewise, if they were coming from Bond’s flat, which was just thirteen minutes away and a straight shot.

            When M arrived at headquarters, Q was already there, glued to the main console of Q branch’s laboratory from which he was accessing MI6’s mainframe, tracking the movements of the hacker and trying to figure out where to cut him off. His hair was sticking up at all sorts of odd angles, and he was dressed in dark grey pajama bottoms and an oversized white button-up shirt that was most definitely not his own. He looked quite literally as if he had rolled out of bed.

            Which he most probably had. Though perhaps not his own.

            She rubbed her eyes. This was not something to be contemplating right now.

            As she blinked the sleep and blurriness out of her eyes, she managed to make out a figure approaching from the other side of the room. As she zeroed in on the person, she recognized Bond, though not at first.

            It was just, well . . . she’d never seen him in pajamas before.

            It was surprisingly much more disturbing than seeing him naked.

            As he approached, she saw that he was carrying two steaming cups; one of them he paused to set beside Q, who made a noise of thanks, and the second of which he offered to her.

            “If only criminal activity was confined to the regular business week, hm? Shite thing to do on a Saturday morning.”

            “Indeed,” she head herself reply dumbly, bringing the cup to her lips. The flavor that washed over her tastebuds surprised her; she had been expecting the distinct bite of Earl Grey. Instead, she was met with the spicy, slightly zesty taste of Chai.

            Seeing her expression and attributing it (more than it deserved) to the unfamiliar taste, Bond shrugged one shoulder and said casually, “Q prefers it.”

            She warbled for a moment before “I see,” made its way out of her larynx. She watched in bewilderment as Bond climbed atop a workable, seated himself there indian-style, and did nothing more than calmly watch Q type away madly. He looked so serene and relaxed, watching Q, that it made M quite irritated, especially when her own heart was pounding like a drum inside her ears. She felt so powerless, and it was making her anxious.

            “How—how can you be so _cavalier_?” she found herself blurting incredulously, clutching her cup tightly in both hands.

            Bond’s sharp grey eyes strayed from where they were carefully watching Q, directing themselves towards her. He blinked, and she realized for the first time how sleepy he looked, and how unnatural it seemed on him.

            “I do not have the necessary skill sets to be of much use here,” he replied levelly. “Like you, all I can do is sit and wait. Besides, Q has it well in hand.”

            From where he was hunched over the keyboard, Q piped up. “Much as I appreciate your unwavering confidence in my ability, it would be doing me a great service if you kindly shut up. This is actually much harder than it looks.”

            Bond chuckled silently. From somewhere in one of the deep pockets of his pajamas, he produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and proceeded to light up.

             In the past, she might have admonished him for smoking indoors, in Q branch no less. Now, it was all she could do not to demand he give her one also. It was much too early in the morning for this kind of stress.

            Time passed in silence. To her old bones it felt like hours, but when she checked her wrist watch only the minute hand had moved.

            Finally, twenty more minutes of mad typing and another cup of tea later, the monitor screen, which had before been filled with red and various warning messages, flashed a green boarder and the message “SYSTEM SECURED”. Haggardly, Q pushed himself away from the console and slumped, if possible, even further in the chair.

            “And this why exactly _why_ there are seven bloody firewalls,” she heard him mutter. Picking up the cup sitting beside him, he drained the remains of his second cup of tea before hoisting himself out of the chair. Both M and Bond watched silently as Q plucked up the jacket which had been hanging on the back of the chair and draped it around himself.

            “Our intruder managed to break through the second fire wall,” Q reported, directing his comments at M as he drew nearer to both her and Bond. “But I booted him out of the system before he could get to the third. Fortunately for us, a copious amount of cyber fingerprints were left, which we can analyze. The firewalls are programmed to refortify themselves after attack, which they are doing now. There is also an automatic analysis being run on the traces he left behind. If I let it, the system will go on automatic lockdown in approximately 4 minutes, which I would recommend letting it do. It will last for about 24 hours.”

            “Is that safe?”

            Q pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Yes.”

            “All right then.”

            “I will come in tomorrow and check over the data and diagnostics. And possibly begin programming a new firewall, if you think it wise.”

            “I do.” She watched warily as Bond disentangled his legs from their sitting position and slid off the worktable to stand next to Q. They were an interesting sight, with Q in clothes that were obviously not his, and Bond in nothing more than red flannel pajama bottoms and a white undershirt. Both of them barefoot, no less.

            M cleared her throat. “Well, then. Good day gentlemen.”

            Bond grinned and tugged on the sleeve of the coat Q was wearing, signaling for him to follow the agent as Bond casually began to saunter out of the lab. As she watched, Q fell in step with him, yawning.

           “Since I did not have a chance to say so earlier: good morning,” the double-0 agent murmured.

            And she heard Q scoff, but she turned away before she could witness Bond leaning down to make his face level with Q’s.

            After a moment, she heard the voice of Q, sounding quite different and much less irritable. “Well then. Good morning.”

            Bond’s voice was smooth and warm, returning, “And now that we are up and about, care for breakfast?”

            “James, it’s just barely 5 A.M.”

            “I know a few places. . . .”

 

12

            If she were honest, a part of her expected something drastic to change. What that might be, she couldn’t say, but it seemed almost inevitable that _something_ become compromised by this new development.

            This particular situation had never occurred before, but M knew from past experiences what happened when agents became involved with their colleagues or superiors. It wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t professional; and by the end of it, at least one of the parties involved ended up losing their job. Occasionally, someone got killed before that could happen.

            As it happened, 007 was very adept at killing people. Likewise, the quartermaster was in a unique position to get 007 killed on a daily basis. All it would take is one bad temper and a rash decision.

            And as much of a reality as that part of the situation was, it wasn’t what worried her most.

            What she feared was not the consequences of a domestic brought to the workplace, but more the interference of sentiment.

            Q, for his part, behaved absolutely not differently than before. He did not give Bond special treatment, and his reactions to Bond’s attempts at workplace flirtation were as aloof as before, with the occasional snarky comment here and there. His performance when giving Bond instructions in the field was unobstructed by any personal involvement, and never once did he show unnecessary emotion or concern, even when the double-0 agent was in a life-threatening situation. No, Q was perfectly poker-faced. Expertly compartmentalized.  

            It was 007 that she was most worried about.

            For example: he had stopped seducing the women he encountered on his missions.

            That should have probably been the first sign that something was amiss, because it had actually begun occurring (or, rather, _not_ occurring) a few months ago. Generally, there was this presumption that Bond would end up in bed with some woman or another, either to get information or to gain trust, and there was almost always an inevitable few days post mission wherein 007 would be AWOL, tucked away in some nest with a willing and warm body.

            Lately, though, these trademark maneuvers had not been present. Oh yes, 007 continued to flirt and coax and woo, but he seldom went so far as to actually sleep with the woman of his temporary attentions. Which, by all official accounts, was a good thing— save for the fact that Bond had been functioning successfully by that particular _modus operandi_ for years, and switching tactics at this point was perhaps not the wisest thing to do. It certainly took him longer on some occasions. But the job got done, regardless.

            But this was not the only noticeable difference that had given her pause.

            It had less to do with Bond’s behavior towards the quartermaster and more to do with his behavior towards others interacting with Q.

            Some of it was little things. The way Bond would touch Q every so often, fleetingly but in places and ways that were too-familiar. Or the way they would arrive at MI6 in the same car some mornings, and Bond would walk Q to Q Branch before heading to his own office or training; or how they would leave just the same way. Or how Bond would bring Q lunch, or a cup of Chai as an excuse to not be sitting at his desk and doing paperwork. Little things.

            Other instances were more noticeable. For example, when Stanton, one of Mallory’s new colleagues had been touring Q branch, he made some sort of snide comment about allowing “pretty, bungling teenagers” run delicate operations. And while Q said nothing to defend himself, 007 was quick to inform Stanton that making a “teenager” head of Q branch was probably no more unwise as making your twenty-something mistress your personal secretary (particularly when she was screwing two other men in the department and not half as competent as she was “pretty”).

            And then there was the American incident, when a top computer tech from the CIA was brought in to work in collaboration with Q Branch for several months. M didn’t witness anything herself, but Moneypenny informed her that the CIA tech had made several overt advances towards Q, and Bond . . . well, Bond hadn’t taken it well. Apparently, Q had to temporarily ban 007 from the premises in order to get any work done without the CIA chap fearing for his life.

            Most notable, however, was the meeting with the Prime Minister and his cabinet two days ago to discuss some delicate matters concerning foreign powers. Several of the 00s had been in attendance, along with the Prime Minister’s own security detail.

            Q had been standing up, presenting MI6’s findings when machine gun rounds had been fired from outside the building.

In the event of a situation like this, the 00s had been instructed to protect the Minister and return fire if possible. As soon as the first one went off, all of security had basically dog-piled the Minister, and 005, 8, and 9 more or less followed suit, as per prior instruction. Moneypenny had immediately gotten M under the table and pulled out a semi-automatic (from god knows where).

            It only occurred to her then, as she crouched under the table with Moneypenny returning fire above her head, that no security had been assigned to Q. But she needn’t have worried.

            As soon as the first round began going off, 007 had thrown himself not at the Prime Minister, as instructed, but at Q. Once they were on the ground, the agent immediately shielded the smaller man with his own body, protecting him with a ferocity that was almost frightening.  

            M sat at her desk, contemplating that image in her mind. Yes. That was the instance that disturbed her the most. And it wasn’t because she thought Bond had directly disobeyed an order. It was that he disobeyed because he reacted out of _instinct_. 

            Bond was a world-class agent. His instincts could _not_ be compromised.

            The slight crackle of Moneypenny’s voice buzzing through the com on her desk broke her out of her thoughts.

            “M, 007 is here to see you.”

            M pressed the button of the com, bracing herself. “Send him in.”

            The door opened momentarily, and the double-0 agent entered, looking as well-tailored and impassive as usual. M barely spared him a glance, though, just nodded at the seat across from her. “Sit.”

            Bond complied without a word, though she could tell now that he was watching her differently. Her sharp tone had set him off, as she had meant it to, and now he was observing her with greater intensity, a cat-like wariness.

            She was in a position to drag it out, this tense silence, to try and make 007 as uncomfortable as possible; but that in and of itself was a lost cause, and it wasn’t her custom. She cut to the point.

            “I suppose you can hazard a guess as to why I’ve called you here.”

            Say what you will about 007’s disregard for authority and grave situations; the man still knew better than to play games with M.

            “I can.”

            “It’s not tolerable, 007. I can overlook your indiscretions in the field, but at MI6? Shame on you.”

            That statement was intended to burn, meant to bring out the unfathomable creature that was James Bond’s conscience. But Bond wore guilt the way most men wear lingerie: never. Or inconspicuously. The only expression he wore was in his eyes, full of steely blue-grey curiosity.

            “You don’t think I am sincere.” He said slowly.

            “I don’t think you know what that means. There are consequences for this sort of thing, 007. I should not have to remind you of that.”

            Something flashed in Bond’s eyes, and she thought for a moment that it might be anger; however, it was gone as soon as she’d seen it.

            “What are you asking me to do, M?” he asked quietly.

            “Simply, to stop. Before either of you becomes irrevocably compromised.”

            Bond tilted his head, and watched her for a long moment. “And the alternative?”

            M’s mouth thinned into a line. “One or both of you will lose your job.”

            Nothing could have prepared her for what came out of 007’s mouth next:—

            “So fire him.”

            She was fairly certain that her mouth might have dropped open a millimeter. She gaped at him incredulously, struggling to find words to combat this brazen, unflinching solution.  But the truth was, MI6 did not hire or train second-rate officers; Q was the very best. There was no way she could possibly dismiss him from MI6.

            “I—I can’t do that,” she finally managed.      

            007 sat back in the chair. “Then fire me.”

            Her lips were pressed so tightly together that her mouth had almost disappeared; because, like its officers, MI6 did not deal with mediocre agents. 007, for all his faults, had yet to meet his true equal. _She_ certainly didn’t think she could find one for him. 

            “I can’t do that either.”

            And then, to her utter chagrin and dismay, Bond smiled.

           “Then don’t.”

            She just stared at him and he, being the incorrigible man that he was, took her silence as a dismissal. He stood.

            “We are all adults here, M. Despite what you may perceive about my utter disregard for consequences, I know the rules, and I have my priorities in order. If you asked, he would say the same.” He straightened up to his full height and moved around the chair. “I assume you will want to speak with Q next. I will fetch him for you.”

            _“No,”_ she said, surprising even herself with how forceful that one syllable sounded. Seeing the searching way Bond was looking at her, she gave her best frustrated half-sigh and waved a hand peevishly at him. “That won’t be necessary.”

            Bond looked as though he wanted to make some reply to that, but, mercifully, he managed to keep his insufferable mouth shut. Instead, he merely nodded, turned heel, and walked out the door.

            It occurred to her as the door clicked shut behind him that she had never any intention of discussing this with Q. The reason being that, if she’d gone to Q first, this entire conversation would have been much shorter. Because if she had brought Q into her office and told him to call off whatever was going on with Bond, he would have done so without protest—especially if she told him that it could be putting Bond in danger. He would have severed ties and kept it that way, regardless of any attempts Bond would make to salvage or revive their liaison. That was Q. Q knew how to prioritize, compartmentalize. He knew how to chop Bond up into little jigsaw pieces and fit them perfectly into their respective places in his life. And when the day came when Bond inevitably died, she was certain that Q would attend the funeral stony-faced, regardless of whatever he was feeling.

            And Bond, she realized, would do the same.

            But she had called for Bond and not Q because Bond would argue with her. He was more headstrong than Q. He wouldn't just rollover and do as she requested. He wouldn’t go down without a fight. 

            That, she mused, was why he was the best. He had a vicious single-mindedness which made him nearly impenetrable and indomitable. Unyielding. He stood by the things that mattered to him, and would die for them without hesitation.

            M knew one thing for certain: until he died, James Bond would be fighting.

            For Queen, for Country, and for Q.  

 

 

 


End file.
